Little Shadow
by Metarie
Summary: The more he looks at her, there, in the picture, an image of her alive, happy and smiling, the easier it is to paper it over the image of her death... Arthur/Ariadne. ANGST.


_**Disclaimer: Not mine.**_  
_**A/N: K, I'm a total angst whore, and even I think this is super depressing. So just be forewarned.**_

* * *

The room is papered with sketches. When Arthur walks in, she's sitting on the bed, cross legged, drawing, as usual, her hair hanging in waves, framing her face as she concentrates.

"Check it out," she says, showing it to him.

He looks. "It's not very good," he says.

Ariadne purses her lips. "Well. Who's fault is that?"

* * *

He learned to sleep anywhere, so now he can't sleep in beds. In hotel rooms he sits in the desk chair and hooks himself up. He knows it's not healthy. He doesn't care.

Arthur has always valued rational thought over emotional reactions. He's not heartless, but when something isn't his fault, he doesn't blame himself. Usually.

It was always different with her.

* * *

"I see you've found a new architect," Ariadne comments one day. She's tearing down a wall of drawings to make room for more. Her latest sketch is a giant one of an old fashioned house with a porch swing.

"She's not as good as you," he says.

"Obviously."

"Or as pretty."

Ariadne smiles over her shoulder at him.

"What's that?" Arthur asks, about her newest drawing. He asks, but he already knows.

"It's our house," she says, standing back and admiring her work.

"Why don't you build it?" He gestures to the window. "Out there."

"Don't be stupid," she says.

* * *

She starts showing up on jobs.

"What?" Arthur says, when faced with accusing looks from his team members. "It's not like she's causing problems."

In fact, she does quite the opposite. In the shared dreamworld, she appears, casually chatting with them about what she sees in their heads ("You really should've asked her out already, I'm not sure what you're waiting for," "How are James and Phillipa? I bet they've gotten big"), fighting off angry projections with increasingly ridiculous weapons (crossbows, samurai swords, once she showed up in a tank), patrolling mazes built by their new architect and pointing out flaws. It's almost like it's real.

"Blimey," Eames says, as they're putting away the PASIV and getting ready to call it quits one day. "You remember her perfectly."

_No I don't,_ Arthur thinks, but he just takes a deep breath, grabs his coat and leaves, without a word.

* * *

Every night, he stares at her picture. Memorizing. Everything about her, the wavy brown wisps of hair around her face, the pale pink blush on her cheeks, her full, round mouth. Her cardigan sweaters, her scarves, her messenger bag. Every detail, committed to memory, because he can't have her showing up looking anything but her best. (Her best: as close to real as he can get her.)

_The more he looks at her, there, in the picture, an image of her alive, happy and smiling, the easier it is to paper it over the image of her shuddering form, his hand bright, shiny, red from the blood flowing from the unstaunchable bullet wound in her stomach, looking up at him and promising he'd see her again._

* * *

"They think you're losing it, you know," Ariadne tells him, snuggled into the crook of his arm.

Arthur strokes her hair, gently, his eyes barely open. "No, they think I might lose control of you."

"Like you ever had control of me."

He smiles. "Like I'm going to remind them of that."

Ariadne sits up and looks down at him, reaching out to touch his face. "Look at you," she says, quietly. "Talking to yourself inside your head."

"Ariadne..."

"No." She shakes her head. "She's dead."

Arthur rubs his eyes, wearily, and when he opens them again, he's alone. He waits for a while, but he wakes up without seeing her again.

* * *

Cobb tells him he's treading shaky ground.

"I'm already hearing it from her," Arthur snaps. "I don't need it from you, too."

"Just be careful," Cobb says.

"I always am."

It's the first and last time they ever talk about it.

* * *

When Arthur tries to sleep naturally, his dreams are chaotic and terrifying. He always ends up at Ariadne's side, clinging to her tiny, limp form, trying to hold it together, trying absurdly not to put his bloodied hand on her sweater, because he knows, just knows, how badly that will stain.

_(He wakes up from these nightmares in a cold sweat. Even after spending an hour in the shower, he still can't look at his hands without seeing them covered in red.)_

* * *

Falling into limbo is inevitable in this line of work. It happens to the best of them. They're on a job that requires slight sedation, and things go a bit wrong. One overzealous projection leads to another and Arthur finds himself washing up on a shore of endless sand and sky.

The sunlight is all encompassing. When he looks up, he sees Ariadne, curiously peering down at him.

"Hi honey," she says. "We're home."

"Not funny," he says.

* * *

Arthur clutches his totem tightly, rolling it constantly, the number coming up wrong every time. It's easy to remember it's not real. Eventually, it makes him angry. Eventually, he wants to forget.

Ariadne builds their house, and he loves it. He can't help it.

"Just like you dreamed, right?" she asks, and Arthur kisses her.

"It's exactly like I dreamed," he says, and he tries futilely to push to the back of his mind the reason why.

* * *

It doesn't matter how long he stays there. Whatever he does, he can't let go. It's not real. None of it is real. His totem constantly tells him so, and after a while he doesn't even need to remind himself.

Losing himself, it seems, does not come naturally to Arthur. He wishes it did. Instead, he just remembers. And even when he's losing himself in her, reliving warm and intimate memories of their honeymoon in the rooms of the house she'd always wanted to build, that he'd seen glimpses of in her sketchbook when she thought he wasn't looking... there is still, even then, the sound of an echoing gunshot, penetrating the dream like it did then, refusing to release him to oblivion.

* * *

"I was wondering if you were going to show up one of these days," Arthur says.

Eames looks out over the water, squinting. "How long do you think you've been here?"

"Not sure," says Arthur. "Probably only a few minutes. But years, for me."

"So you know," says Eames. "That this… isn't real, that this is limbo."

"Couldn't make myself forget," says Arthur. Down the beach, he fixes his gaze on Ariadne, walking through the shallow tide, the breeze blowing her hair across her face. She looks up at him and waves.

"But you never tried to leave," says Eames.

"Couldn't make myself do that, either."

Eames sighs. "Well. What are friends for?" He nods towards Ariadne. "I'll give you two a moment. Assuming you want one."

Arthur doesn't answer or look at him, which is enough of an answer for Eames.

When Ariadne reaches him, she takes his hand and holds it tightly.

"Time to go?" she asks, softly.

He nods, unable to meet her eyes. It doesn't matter that she's only his projection. Ariadne could never be only anything in Arthur's mind.

"You need to leave me here," she says. "I know you know that."

"Doesn't make it any easier," he mumbles, and then he pulls her into a crushing hug.

"Oh stop," she whispers. "You'll be fine."

"I don't know," he says.

"Well, you better be." She leans back to look at him. "I'll be so mad if you aren't."

Arthur smiles a little. "I miss you," he tells her, for the second to last time. "I miss you so much."

"I know," Ariadne says. "It's okay." Her eyes fix on something in the distance, and Arthur follows her gaze. Eames is waiting.

"Come on, then," he says.

Arthur takes a deep breath and turns to her, taking in her face - so real, so alive - and feels, still, that a million years in limbo could never be enough.

"Don't you dare look back," she says, and she kisses him.

God help him, but he doesn't.

* * *

After that, his only dreams are of beaches.

* * *

_If you can't sleep, I'll be there in your dreams  
I'll be there in your dreams if you can't sleep at all  
And in your dreams, I'll touch your cheek  
And lay my head on your shoulder_  
-She & Him


End file.
